


Fenris

by incandescent (lmeden)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/incandescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime kneels before the Queen of the North and finds that his Lannister tongue has, for once, failed him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fenris

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a Porn Battle fic, but it didn't want to be porn-y, so I let it sit for a couple months, and now I've wrapped it up. I remember that I was reading a book about fencing when I wrote this, which might explain some of the terms. And I discovered Harrion Karstark in the process as well, who is apparently a total BAMF, and still alive to boot. I also briefly reference Norse mythology. 
> 
> Originally for the prompt: _A Song of Ice and Fire – George R.R. Martin, Sansa Stark/Jaime Lannister, bright, knight, gold, honor, chances, running, hiding, protector, seduction, teasing_
> 
> Unbeta'ed.

“And what use are you to me?” The Queen of the North asks, her hair aflame in the light from the window above; it is not the first time Winterfell has burned, he thinks. 

“You cannot wield a blade. Your fabled skills are lost.” By her tone, she doesn’t consider this much of a loss. 

Jaime allows himself one flashing glance up at her before he fixes his stare on the charred stones beneath him. They have been scrubbed clean of soot, but are still marred around the edges, blackened and crumbling. He feels a kinship to them. 

“You do not deny it,” she says wonderingly, and Jaime’s gaze snaps up to her. She stands, pushing up from Winterfell’s high seat, and lifts her skirts to descend. Her hair is unbound, and though her tone is critical, her expression is open. She is beautiful, nothing like his sister, these days. 

He flinches away from the thought and forces his gaze down to the stone floor once again. Her shifts on his knees and a stone rocks in its place. Pathetic. 

“Jaime Lannister,” she says, reaching down to draw his chin up. She smiles at him. “You have been brought low. Welcome to the North, where we are all low.”

She may be Queen of the North, but Sansa Stark’s dress is fraying at the hem and patched on the elbows. It is much worn, like the calloused skin on the pads of her fingers, yet still beautiful. She lets him go and steps back. 

Then she walks away, leaving him to struggle to his feet on his own. 

-

Jaime wraps a leather thong around his stump, looping it slowly and painstakingly so that every bit of flesh is covered tightly. Then he takes up his sword with his left hand. He takes a deep breath, and looks up. 

His opponent is scarred and grizzled, his beard peppered with grey as if it, too, has frosted over like the rest of this godsdamned land. Jaime glances to the side, where Sansa Stark watches impassively. He remembers the terrified girl she was once, long ago. He can’t remember much else about her. He wonders what happened to change her. 

But he can’t afford to think now. He lifts his sword into a middle stance, perfect for defense, and waits. His opponent appears relaxed, and steps forward with his sword low. The shield on his arm hangs by his side. 

He closes the measure, and Jaime lungs, bringing his sword across in a swift slash. The man flings his arm up and steps back, and the point of Jaime’s sword misses. He keeps moving, turning the slash around and striking once more. This time he hits his opponent’s shield and knocks his arm back. 

The man brings his sword up and stabs towards Jaime. He pivots sideways, but the steel catches the cloth of his shirt and it tears. The jerkin he wears beneath protects his skin; Jaime uses his stump, shoving the sword back with the leather-covered portion. The man brings his shield down towards Jaime’s head and he dodges, dropping low and coming up close. 

For a moment, he’s tempted to just kick the man, but he is suppose to make this fight fair, so he resists the urge. He’s fairly sure that the Stark girl doesn’t want him dead. Not yet, at least. 

If she can, she’ll find a way to use him. Like all Queens do. 

He springs up from a crouch, slamming the top of his head into the man’s chin. He grunts and stumbles back, and Jaime curses the fact that the man’s beard may have blunted the blow. With a shake of his head, the man brings his sword up. The look in his eyes is wary. Panting, Jaime steps back, but the man gives him no time to breathe. 

He moves forward and slashes violently. Jaime manages to dodge, but the movement sends him off balance and he nearly falls with his next step. He manages to catch himself and lifts his stump just in time to meet the blade of his opponent. The edge cuts halfway through the leather, then stops, leaving the bones of Jaimes’ arm aching. Before the man can pull back his blade, he kicks at the man’s shield and shoves his sword forward in an ungraceful stab. 

The point of his sword skitters off the armor around the man’s neck, slicing shallowly through the skin there and then flying free. The man snarls, and Jaime pulls it back. 

“My Lord Karstark!” Sansa calls from the side. Jaime freezes and turns to look at his opponent; Harrion Karstark pulls back and bends his knee to her. She walks toward them, unfearful of their naked blades. 

“Thank you, Harry,” she says, and Karstark nods to her. Without so much as a backwards glance, he stands and walks away from Jaime. 

“We weren’t finished!” Jaime exclaims. Despite the fact that his muscles are quivering from unaccustomed exertion and his left arm burns from the weight of the sword, his blood is pumping and his ardor is high. He would see this fight to its end. 

“But you are,” she says, and Jaime bites his tongue at the look in her eyes. Here, her word is law. “For now, at least.” Sansa reaches out and lays a hand on Jaime’s arm – his right arm. “You fight well for a man with one hand. I see now why you guarded so many Kings.” She turns away, not mentioning his failed duties. “Join me for dinner, and we will discuss your place here.”

Jaime grimaces and nods, but she is already gone; she didn’t even wait to hear his answer, already knowing what it would be.

-

They dine in one of Winterfell’s old towers. The rafters are cluttered with cobwebs, but there are fresh rushes on the floor; a guard stands at the door, and inside, alone, waits the Queen. 

Jaime narrows his eyes at the room as he steps inside. It is familiar, in an unsettling way, and he doesn’t have very many reasons to remember the towers of Winterfell. He scowls, but manages a bow. 

“Sit,” she says, and so he does; the table is temporary and the chairs are designed to fold away. He perches cautiously on one and Sansa lowers herself gracefully into the other. 

“What shall I call you?” she asks calmly. “Ser Knight? Lannister?” She pauses. “Kingslayer?”

Jaime’s mouth twists. “Many have called me that. I would ask you call me Jaime. I don’t pretend to any other title.”

“You have earned your epithets. Are you denying them?”

“No.” He will never be able to forget his past – no one would let him if he tried. He simply wants something different. A fresh start, perhaps. Something new to go with the branches that are just beginning to bud. 

She reaches out and lifts a cold roll from the table, then leans forward and gives it to Jaime. He blinks, surprised, and takes it. 

“Jaime,” she says. “I suppose that, if you continue to fight as well as you did today, I will call you by whatever name you wish.”

Jaime glances down at the roll in his hand. He sets it on the table. “I wished only to prove my worth, my Lady. I was no match for Karstark.” It is true, and a shameful truth at that. 

She shakes her head. “Maybe your skills are rough, but your determination does not lack. That is what I need, more than polish.”

“Why?” he asks. “Why do you need me at all? When your men captured me, they would have found me easy to kill. Why did you have them bring me here? And why give me a chance to prove myself?” What is it with the Stark women, that they are so unwilling to see him die?

She stares at him across the table. “You are a prize,” she says finally. “Perhaps your sister would like you back – if so, I will gladly arrange a ransom. Or even better, a trade. If she does not, there are other services you can provide.”

Jaime scoffs. “Cersei will leave me to rot. No matter how much she loved me once, that is no more. I can give her nothing, so she’ll cast me off.”

Sansa nods. “I thought as much. I case you have not noticed, we in the North have many enemies. Though spring has come, we still fight for our lives. We will either bow our heads soon, or die.” She pauses and lifts her cup, then sips from it. As she sets it down, Jaime sees that it’s filled with water. “Do you wish to die?”

It’s a question that Jaime has considered many times, yet the honest answer is still hard to voice. Once, he would have laughed. Once, he would have said, _I am not afraid to die_. Today, he says:

“No. I want to live.”

“Then,” Sansa says with a smile, “serve me. I have many knights, but as of yet I’ve not chosen any for my Queensguard. Would you give me your oath?”

For a moment, Jaime can do nothing but stare. She must be mad. “You _have_ lost your wits,” he breathes, then bites his tongue. 

Sansa merely laughs, throwing her head back to expose her pale throat. “Did you ever listen to the old songs?” she asks. 

Jaime shakes his head, taken aback by the change of subject. “Only those about great battles.”

“I loved those. But I loved the ones of romance and daring more. I thought that one day, I too would be written into a song. And no one would ever forget me. Well, it seems I may have my wish. It’s just that I was wrong about the kind of song they will sing.”

“You will die trying to hold the North,” Jaime warns. “My sister may no longer have the power to defeat you, but the Targaryan Queen has dragons. And last I heard, she was almost here.”

“So many Queens.” Sansa nods. “I heard the same. I doubt she will be merciful.”

“You intend to fight to the end,” he says, wonderingly. “You will kill your army to the man, and then they will execute you.”

“I will not give up the North. My brothers died for us, my sister died for us, Robb died for us. I can do no less.”

She has doomed herself, Jaime sees. She can do nothing else for her family but give her life now. Once, he’d sworn to do the same. 

Jaime reaches for his own goblet and sips from it, the cool, clear taste of water soothing to him. He isn’t sure the modest drink has ever tasted better. 

“I’ll will swear your oath,” he says finally. “I will be the first of your Queensguard, for all the good it will do you.”

Sansa smiles, and her expression is sad. “Thank you. I will have a red cloak made for you, and you will help me lead my armies.”

And so she has killed him. “Red?” he asks. 

“Of course,” she responds. “The Starks have drowned in blood; all but I. So the red wolf has become our standard.”

There is an old legend, he vaguely recalls, of the red wolf. They say that one day, it will devour the sun. 

Jaime eyes her soft expression, how the dark red of her hair frames her pale skin and eyes. Perhaps she will at that. 

As if hearing his thoughts, Sansa Stark smiles.


End file.
